Chapter 22
Harry
It’s six degrees Celsius, pissing down with rain, and I’m standing about twenty-two metres from the goalposts, lining up a conversion. My kit is soaked through, boots too, and if it weren’t for the adrenaline, I’m pretty sure I would have succumbed to frostbite a long time ago.
But there’s a special kind of exhilaration that comes with playing rugby in the rain. Especially when you’re winning and spirits are high. It’s like nothing can dampen the mood. Literally.
The best news of all, and the reason you couldn’t wipe the smile off my face even if you clobbered me with a snow shovel, is that Mathias Jones is away for the Six Nations, and I’ve been playing for a full seventy minutes so far without getting subbed.
Lando’s in the crowd, and though visibility is shit, it’s not difficult to spot him.
He’s wearing his black designer raincoat that no doubt cost his father the equivalent of more than a month’s rent for my flat, and for the first half, he held up a hand-painted banner that read: HARRY ELLIS IS MY KING.
The rain, however, had other ideas, and after destroying the structural integrity of the sign, it was tossed aside.
Still, it’s one more banner for me today than for Mathias Flaffius.
The crowd is thinner too, since most people are at Murrayfield watching Scotland v England, or at home or the pub viewing it on their televisions.
We’re playing Bristol—who are down four of their biggest players to the various Six Nations teams—in a friendly derby-style match.
The Cents are leading by twelve points, and I know folk will say it’s because Bristol are missing this big hitter and that big hitter, but I don’t care. I’m having the best time.
Mum and Dad and Casper and Josh are in the stands cheering too. And Daisy and Serasi are there beside Lando, and though I can’t see either of them, I can hear Daisy’s booming ref’s voice and Serasi with her prop’s lung capacity yelling for me.
The ball waits for me on the tee. I take a few steps back, angle myself just right, and make a few mental calculations.
I’ll need to give it more welly in this weather, but it’s not an impossible feat.
I’ve already done it twice today without a problem.
My pre-kick ritual of drying my palms on my shorts seems pointless right now, but I do it anyway, because I’m convinced we’ll all fail if I forgo it.
I take my shot, shield my eyes from the downpour, and just like that, our twelve-point lead becomes fourteen points.
When the full-time whistle goes ten minutes later, we’re all exhausted and happy and endorphins are coursing through our veins. Even Bristol come in for hugs and head pats and shirt swaps.
I run over to the bench, and even though I’m soaked, I give Mum the biggest hug either of us can muster. Dad next. Then my younger brother, because he’s pushing Dad out of the way, followed by my older brother.
Lando waits patiently beside them. He’s smiling, his cheeks and nose are pink, and perhaps it’s just a trick of the stormy evening sky or the overhead floodlights, but his eyes look a little bloodshot.
“My king,” he says, when it’s finally his turn to hug me.
But I don’t hug him, not really. I hold him. Hold on tight as though he might float away like a helium balloon.
“Babygirl.”
“You were brilliant, by the way. That’s all anybody will talk about for weeks now.” A drop of water slides down his cheek. Tears or rain? I’m not sure, but suddenly I’m feeling strangely emotional.
“Can I kiss you?” I ask.
“It’ll go viral,” he says.
I very much doubt this is true. All eyes are currently on England v Scotland—nothing else in the rugby-sphere matters except for the Six Nations—so nobody will notice a cheeky little kiss between two youngsters in the torrential rain at the end of a game.
“Oh no, the cameras won’t be on Mathias Jones for five seconds. How will he cope?” I say. And I kiss him, deep and with lots of tongue, and he reciprocates. Everything is so fucking perfect I could scream.
Beside me, Mum cheers.
Casper shouts, “Get a room!”
We pull apart and we’re both laughing because we know that somebody would have snapped a photo of that moment. When I find the picture on Instagram or one of the sports news websites, I’m going to print it out and put it on my wall.
I’m getting ushered along, shepherded back towards the locker rooms by friendly-looking match attendants.
I wave to my family one last time. Lando makes a heart gesture at me with his fingers, and I’m guided forward.
On the way, I high-five everyone with their arms stretched out over the barrier.
A kid no older than ten hovers with a sign.
The ink has smudged down the cardboard, but it reads: Harry Ellis, please can I have your shirt?
I whip it off without hesitation and hand it over, and then I’m waving my final goodbyes and searching out Lando one last time before ducking inside to get clean and dry and warm.
Lando waits for me in the VIP bar after I’ve showered and dressed, along with the rest of my family, his best friend, and her girlfriend. He bounces on the balls of his feet, and he looks . . . uncomfortable. Very unLando. It’s only when I get closer that I realise why.
Lionel’s there. Sans Toby. I didn’t see him in the stands, so he must have had seats further back or at the other end of the stadium.
Folk take it in turns to congratulate me again, and I cannot wipe the smile from my face.
This, right here, right now, has always been the dream.
To succeed. To dominate the game. To have fun. To be surrounded by my family and friends while they tell me how wonderful and amazing I am, and how they couldn’t be prouder. And okay, yes, I love praise, but who doesn’t?
Especially when it comes from someone you love.
And . . . holy fuck. I love Lando.
I love him.
As a friend or more than a friend I’m not sure, but I love him so fucking much.
He gave up his entire Saturday—his Valentine’s Day—for me. He stood for two hours in the pissing rain just to cheer me on. He made a motherfucking sign.
He buys me gifts, and sniff tests my food so I don’t accidentally poison myself.
He watches Christmas movies outside of December because I ask him to.
He plays with my hair until I fall asleep on him.
He doesn’t tell me I’m being unreasonable about Mathias Jones, even though I’m so fucking out of line I would call me out.
Maybe I’ve loved him for a while.
“Harry!” Lionel says after everyone’s had their moment congratulating me. Oh, so now he remembers my name. “Your mum’s been giving me a crash course in rugby, and I have to say, you were phenomenal.”
I pretend to flip my hair over my shoulder. Lando laughs. Casper punches my arm. “Thanks. I won player of the match, in case you didn’t already know that.” I’m being a cocky little shit, but I realise . . . I don’t care what Lionel thinks of me any more.
He giggles, but it sounds affected and his eyes don’t crinkle. He places a hand on my bicep and alarm bells start ringing in my head.
I shoot Lando a look. A raised eyebrow and a silent question I hope he understands. “Is he flirting with me?”
Lando’s fingers rest under his chin, he slow blinks and nods once. So that’s a yes, then. Lionel is flirting with me.
“Where’s Toby?” I ask.
“Oh, um . . .” Mum says, trying way too late to stop me from putting my foot in my mouth, but how was I supposed to know?
“We’re . . . not together any more,” Lionel says.
“Okay.” What else do I say? Do I want to be the rebound guy? “I mean, shit. Sorry to hear that.”
I look once again at Lando, who hastily averts his eyes from mine, his fingers plastered over his mouth to stop himself from laughing out loud. “So . . .” I say to the group at large. “Who wants to buy me a drink?”
“You’re such a dick,” Lando says to me a little while later at the bar.
Everyone is still here, and we’re only halfway through our second round. Lando’s drinking white wine, but the rest of us, including Mum, are on the Guinness. Dad let Casper have a sip of his, but Casper, being the brat he is, tried to split the G. He’s been in the bathroom since then.
“Why would you say such an awful thing to moi? What have I done?” I tease.
“So, you’re over Lionel?”
Even though Lando might be right, the question still makes my stomach flip uncomfortably. I shrug. I’m pretty sure I know the real reason I was being a twat to Lionel, but I can’t tell Lando why—can never, ever admit that to him.
“Are you still worried you’re not good enough for him? That he’ll think you’re just a kid?” he asks.
I know a lifeline when I’m presented with one. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Lando nods. After a while he says, “Fine, okay. You can practise BJs on me.”
My elbow slips off the bar top behind me, and I slosh Guinness all over my trousers. “Um . . . what? But you don’t . . . You can’t . . .”
“I could for you, my love,” he says. His smirk tells me he’s loving every second of this. “Listen, do you want to go into a relationship with a new guy not knowing how to give decent head?”
“No. Fuck, no.”
“Well, come on, then. Class is in session.” Lando plucks the drink from my hand and places it on the bar.
“Now?!” I say, glancing wildly around at my family and teammates and their families.
Nobody has spared us a second look all evening. Nobody would notice if we slipped out. Nobody except . . . Lionel, who’s doing a decent job of watching Lando and me whilst pretending not to.
“Okay,” I say, my breath hitching, pulse spiking.
Lando pushes me towards the bathrooms. “I’ll go first. You watch and learn. Then later, not here, though, you can try it out on me.”
“But will you . . . come?” I ask.
“If you’re any good.”
I slap myself in the face. That’ll be a no, then.
There are two stalls in the men’s room and a rank of four urinals. The place is deserted. No Casper to be found, which is a relief. Lando walks over to the cubicle at the end and locks us in.